


Count it down (fire at will)

by dishonestdreams



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Terrorism, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams
Summary: Even Killjoys need coping strategies
Relationships: Fun Ghoul/Kobra Kid (Danger Days)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Count it down (fire at will)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pushkin666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/gifts).

> Ficbit for pushkin666's prompt _Fun Ghoul/Kobra Kid, the sand itches_. I will admit that my brain did initially go to...abrasive places. I have no shame :)

The walls are closing in.

Kobra hates the diner. Plastic seats, blasted windows, a kitchen full of nothing but dust and filth – some of which they’re expected to eat – and booths that trap him when Poison leans over with that glint in his eye that says he’s got a _vision_ and he’s gonna spend the next few hours chewing Kobra’s ear off about it. Just like he’s doing now, fucker.

Ghoul catches his eye from across the room with a grin, savage and wild and careless, and Kobra recognises it for the invitation it is. He feels the anticipation spike through him before it settles into a steady hum under his skin, and it soothes an itch he hadn’t even realised was there until just now.

So, fuck _yes_ then.

Poison’s still talking, but Kobra’s only half listening as he sprawls back into the booth and lets the corner of his mouth curl up, just the hint of a smile. It’s enough; Ghoul’ll understand. He reads Kobra as well as Kobra reads him.

They’re on. 

*****

It’s still early when they head out; sun’s not set, and the sky is still the same sickly yellow-grey it always is until it’s not. There aren’t any shadows on the sand, there never are. Sometime soon, they’ll blink, and the sky will shift from day to night while their eyes are closed. 

Ghoul’s waiting for him by the bikes, leaning back against the pillion with his legs crossed at the ankles. He’s a picture of relaxed nonchalance and Kobra’s not fooled for a second.

“What’d you tell them?” Ghoul asks, his eyes sharp even if his tone is mild, and Kobra shrugs.

“Supply run,” he says, “What else?”

Ghoul nods. “Best find something shiny to bring back then,” he says, airily, and Kobra arches an eyebrow.

“Isn’t that part of the point?” he asks, and swings one leg over his bike. 

Ghoul smirks.

*****

They don’t do this often. Poison’s got opinions about how hard they can push without bringing the full fury of Korse’s forces down on their heads, and, the thing is, he’s not _wrong_. They’re forever skirting a line; aggravating enough that it lets them make a difference, but not so aggravating that BL/Ind will up their threat assessment and send in the resources to respond.

It’ll happen eventually, Kobra thinks. Sand’ll turn red that day.

So, there’s that thing, sure. But there’s also the _other_ thing, the thing where Ghoul starts to get jittery, wilder around the eyes than usual, and Kobra starts to get vicious, his tongue turns sharp and his fists get ferocious. Sometimes he wonders if it’s the same for Ghoul as it is for him; that constant feeling like his skin’s being abraded away until it gets too much, leaving nothing behind but raw nerves and jagged edges, while the dust scours his eyes and he chokes on the sand that coats his throat.

He’s never asked, because it sounds stupidly melodramatic and, anyway, it doesn’t fucking matter. What does matter is spotting the point they’re at so they can rein it back in before it tips over, spiralling out of control. They have _strategies_ for that.

Well, a strategy. Ghoul likes to make some noise and Kobra likes to wreak some chaos, until they’re back to fitting in their own skins again. Together they always make a fucking mess and there’s only one place they want to go for that.

It’s not the fucking desert.

*****

They’re barely off the bikes before Ghoul’s on him, all frantic energy and driving force that catches Kobra off guard, and he ends up on his back in the dirt. Ghoul’s weight lies heavy across his hips and his mouth is hard and demanding when he seeks out Kobra’s. They kiss like they’re fighting, clashing lips and teeth all dirty and gritty and _nasty_.

It’s _exactly_ what Kobra wants.

Ghoul grinds against him, graceless and messy and desperate, and Kobra arches up into it, letting Ghoul’s thigh slide between his own. He relishes the burn on his shoulders as much as the throbbing ache in his cock because why the fuck _not_? It feels _good_, and this is part of the point too.

“Wanna,” Ghoul gasps into his mouth, his breath hot against Kobra’s lips, and Kobra bites back, hard enough to draw blood that tingles coppery on his tongue when he flicks it out to taste. “Wanna fucking _fuck_.”

“Yeah,” Kobra says, breathless and wild and fucking _there_ like he feels he hasn’t been for a while. “Not in the fucking sand though, yeah. _Later_.”

Ghoul _growls_, and jerks back high enough that he’s looming over Kobra. The orange flame glittering in his eyes as he stares down makes Kobra’s pulse kick. “_Now_.”

Behind them, Battery City burns.


End file.
